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"Indeed? Perhaps you prefer the balloné style of Taglioni?"

"Yes, I do," said Lina, and laughed. "Of course I do—that's much more my affair!"

They called her Marie, after that, and asked her every night where were the bouquets from her admirers. But she was as obstinate with them as she had been with her father in the old Kennington days.

"Don't worry! One day I shall have as many flowers as Elssler or Adelaide Ferrari!"

It was not so much conceit as blind unquestioning acceptance of a destiny that she firmly believed to have been imposed upon her by powers vaguely supernatural. She said to Rosing one night when she was undressing:

"When am I to dance properly?"

"When you are ready."

"But when will that be, Rosing?"

"How many times must I remind you that I have, like other people, a Christian name?"

"Stanislas, then." She continued, reflectively: "It's extraordinary, to me, how diffïcult it is to say that name. It doesn't come readily, somehow."

"My dear child, you really hurt me when you speak in such a careless fashion."

"Well, but it is," Lina persisted. "I have been with you for two years and never called you Stanislas until lately, when we were married. And it's such a long name to say when you are tired."

"Then we will not discuss it any further, but "

"I forgot to teil you," she interrupted, "a few days ago I had a letter from Paul Martens, a letter of congratulation on the marriage."

"Where is it?"

"I don't know. I think I threw it away."

"But have you answered this letter?"

"No. I have been too busy."